Welcome aboard the Espee or Southern Pacific, a southwestern railroad empire stretching from New Orleans to Sacramento, once known as the new gold standard for the railroads of the world.
What‘s the connection with our current focus on Lost New London?
Well… every so often, as author John Ruddy states in his richly illustrated books, the city beneath the Interstate stretching down river to the Sound, tries reinventing or developing itself within it‘s own self -inflicted six square miles of promise. In the process, like a shaggy dog pestered by fleas, it shakes itself and sheds… and sheds. Among the many with itchy feet shed by New London were John Valley and me.
Below… somewhere in Waterford, another lost place looking for growth and finding it. We got tired of walking Route 85 and decided to continue as Jack Kerouac would.
Eventually we parted ways, but wrote each other now and then. Of the two of us, John was the smarter, more confident, what the schools called a scholar-athlete. He travelled west while I stayed east stumbling from one job to another changing course as if in square dance, often without a partner.
At some point during this hit and miss string of job opportunities, I learned that Valley, as he was known to us, had placed himself in a master‘s program in optometry at the University of Arizona, Tucson. I picked up the writing again and started saving for the airfare, a break from the break from adulthood that I‘d been savoring.
After the third letter, Valley offered me the TV couch in a small adobe rental he shared with Ellen, another grad student and his partner. I was curious, perhaps even envious and had already made plans to visit my uncle and aunt in a watering hole called Niland, a desert railroad junction southeast of Palm Springs. When I‘d saved enough, I gave notice. The set had ended and the musicians were packing up.
The first day, Valley dropped me off at the trailhead for Blacketts Ridge on the north side of town.
You see that wash coming down? The trail parallels it all way to the snow line.
My gaze rose with the altitude and Valley watched as my enthusiasm appeared to wane. He threw up his hands,
You‘ll be okay. In a few places you‘ve got to be half mountain goat, half human fly, but it‘s be worth it. Just keep the wash in sight and you‘ll be fine.
He handed me his watch.
Here. Take this. It‘s roughly three hours up, a little longer back down.
Here. Take this. It‘s three hours up, a little longer back down. Wish I could go with you, but I‘m giving a lecture today on macular degeneration among the elderly.
Captivating, I thought, and nodded.
See you at four.
John Valley and his Saguaro friends.
The first two-thirds of the trek were okay… rather enjoyable, if anything, for the novelty and subtle change in my surrounds. The heat was dry and slowly dropping. My breathing grew heavier forcing me to slow the pace. I stopped twice for the water and crackers riding on my back. While resting, my eyes survey the snow covered highlands further up. They seemed to be getting no closer. Then I considered what a hawk would see while sailing through the air above.
A strange bug that scrambled on two legs with the front two sometimes flailing about… or in more peaceful moments, communing like a praying mantis.
And then as I was considering a third and final resting point before heading back down, I saw the scattered patches on the ground.
Snow.
The next day, I went with Valley to the U of A campus where the coeds were smiling and wearing shorts and sandals. Deep tans everywhere and nobody and nothing appeared to be over 30 years old. That afternoon, I ate another Ellen brown bag sandwich and started some studying on my own… a state railroad map showing the part of the Espee‘s Sunset Route running from Tucson to the state border at Yuma and another showing the major rail yard just outside of downtown,
Once northbound trains left the yard, they could go in one of two directions… west toward Yuma and eventually to Los Angeles. Or they could go north and dead end in Phoenix with no real destination beyond. Plus I‘d heard the local sheriff of Maricopa County had a fenced in lot for those who crossed his department‘s path with neither means nor status.
That evening was our last together, my short stay had run it‘s course. We tied the bow at a Mexican restaurant with yummy, filling empanadas, refried beans, and rice… chased down with a pitcher of sangria. As an added bonus before the arrival of our tres leches, I regaled and amused no one with my Bronx/Puerto-Rican flavored command of the Spanish language. No más, por favor.